


The Terror Ficlets

by spookywriter



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywriter/pseuds/spookywriter
Summary: A collection of fics from my tumblr @francisrmcrozier1. On Melancholy- "I'm better when I'm with you." (Crozier/Fitzjames)2. From Eden- "I thought you didn't want me." (Hickey/Irving)3. Like sleep to the freezing- "I can't stay away from you." (Hickey/Tozer)4. To kiss the skin that crawls from you- "I missed you so much." (Gibson/Hickey)5. "Look at me." (Crozier/Fitzjames)6. "Am I dead?" (Crozier/Fitzjames)





	1. On Melancholy (Crozier/Fitzjames)

At last, their five year long nightmare concludes. Clear skies and calm waters carry them home, no small mercy for a crew of weak and exhausted men. Morale heightens. James allows himself the small luxury of daily strolls along the deck, feeling the kiss of a wind that does not bite. The future hangs before him, ripe with promises. 

But these last weeks are not without their anxieties; indeed, James notes that Francis has been consumed by a melancholy that shows no sight of retreat. This has something, he believes, to do with the following truth: however much a captain may bring to his ship, he will always return home with more. Friendships, memories. Ghosts. A ship is a world of its own, and, after some weeks or months among English civilization, the days spent at sea take on the quality of half-remembered dreams. These past lives are difficult to surrender.

This is perhaps why he finds himself outside Francis’s quarters, once evening has long since given way to night. He suspects that he will find him awake even at this hour.

He knocks. “Francis?”

His suspicions are founded. Francis slouches at his desk before the open ship’s log, still in uniform. A full cup of tea, no longer steaming, sits to his right.

“What do you want, James?” he asks, sounding more tired than irritated.

James settles into a chair beside him, taking care to set aside the papers piled atop it where they will be neither sat upon nor trampled upon. Never before has James seen a cabin so badly in need of a steward, but he knows that the captain would sooner drown in papers than allow Lieutenant Jopson to return to his old duties. 

“I want you to look at me and tell me the cause of this… this latest brown study,” James says. He places a hand on Francis’s, brushing his thumb over wind-weathered skin. “We have all but succeeded. All is well.”

Exhaustion is evident in the deep lines of Francis’s face as he sighs. “It’s not the end I fear. I dread the beginnings ahead.” His eyes sweep over the cluttered desk. “I’ve drafted my letter of resignation from the Navy.”

“As have I.”

They will not be the only ones leaving the seas. They have been transformed, all of them. When the physical consequences of their ordeal have faded — stubborn wounds healed, brittle hair returned to its former luster, skeletal bodies made whole by fat and muscle — no doubt the mental wounds will remain. 

 “If I asked you to stay by my side, would you consider it?”

“I would more than consider it, Francis; I would accept.  **I’m better when I’m with you.** ” He pauses, trying to read the contours of Francis’s face like a topographical map. It proves inscrutable, so James has no choice but to set aside his vanity. “We have become - more than brothers, don’t you think? Our fates are entangled.” 

Francis laces their fingers together, and that is answer enough. 


	2. From Eden (Hickey/Irving)

At long last, the pack ice begins to shift and break. Leads appear, though they, more often than not, close within hours. But the days are now consumed by task of preparing a ship long entrapped in ice to set sail.

John throws himself into his duties, in body as well as in soul. He revels in the aching of his muscles and the bone-tiredness that sets into his limbs by nightfall. As for the desperate comforts that men turn to when preyed upon by lonesomeness and cold and the endless Arctic night, they have no place now that summer has come.

And so for weeks, John resists the sweetness of sin. He rebukes Hickey’s advances, passes him in corridors without so much as a nod, watches the sullen curl of his lips and the sharpness in his eyes as he rejects, again and again, the tainted fruit he offers.

It is not long before he falls again. It is weakness, it is boredom, it is the force of habit. He strays too close to the fire and cannot bear the chill of its absence.

In the dark silence of his cabin, they move together, trading warmth.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Hickey says, a phantom in the candleless darkness. There is something petulant in his voice that reminds John of an insolent youth.

You are just a warm body and a willing ear, he wants to say. A lie. You are no more difficult to replace than worn boots or threadbare sheets.

“I do,” he says. The curve of Hickey’s spine fits neatly against him. He feels the stutter of his pulse beneath his fingertips as he brushes away a stray lock of hair. “I need you.”

And as if John has bewitched him with a spell, Hickey’s muscles relax, his breath spilling out in a soft sigh. Sleep comes to him that night, but John’s conscience weighs him down; he is too heavy to drift away into dreams.


	3. Like sleep to the freezing (Hickey/Tozer)

He misses the volley of bells, the ricochet of shouts that roused him from his berth and summoned him to watch. The days on the ice are limp as a poleless tent. The sun rises, and it sets, and in those intervals of light and dark in between, Tozer can only guess at the passing of time. The uncertainty gnaws at him, makes his temper sharp and his muscles tight. But when his anger burns low, he succumbs to a waking sleep.

It’s easier not to think. To move blindly through the ice as if no more than a beast of burden. Sometimes, Tozer falls asleep on his feet, waking minutes or perhaps hours later, never having missed a stride. The unchanging landscape gives no indication of progress. Maybe no time passes at all.

The only man who seems to be able to see worth a damn is Cornelius Hickey.

He ought to laugh—Hickey, forever grousing, a small and rodent-like man who always seemed ill-suited to any task worth doing. But there has always been this spark of clarity in him. When he speaks, he speaks sense. Illuminates the world around him, in a way. Draws stark the inequalities in the world, delineates the skewed hierarchy of the expedition in a few clean strokes.

And so he follows him. Hickey’s manna fills his stomach, though it leaves an acrid taste in his mouth. If this is the price of survival, he tells himself, then so be it. Let his stomach be full and his mind empty. It’s enough, for a while, this oblivion. It’s warmer by Hickey’s side. Warmer still in his bed. Crozier’s men face empty stomachs and cold berths, but he shall not want.

Not until he wakes with the tang of blood in his mouth and iron pressing cold about his wrists. For a few short hours, the world appears before him in devastating clarity. By morning, sleep swallows him whole.


	4. To kiss the skin that crawls from you (Gibson/Hickey)

The tent flap is pulled aside, permitting a gust of wind, and Billy Gibson with it. He’s a shadow of the man Cornelius once knew, grown gaunt and pallid, the bruises on his face almost indistinguishable from the shadows his bony features cast. A twinge of pity pulls at him, and he averts his eyes.

“I’d like a word.” Billy lingers by the opening, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Please.”

When Cornelius offers no response, Billy takes a seat beside him on the bedroll. Runs his fingers through his hair, grown overlong and tangled. A year ago, Cornelius might have taken Billy’s hands in his own, stilling their anxious fidgeting. Today, he simply watches, waiting.

“I miss you,” says Billy finally. “How do I apologize to you, Cornelius? I acted for the sake of myself and for the sake of my station. But know that I never meant to be cruel.”

Some part of him has envisioned this moment, he knows, for longer than he dares to admit. And yet the reality of the situation disappoints him. Billy’s ignorance grates—to think that betrayal is something that can be mended as easily as that.

“I would have taken the lash for you,” he says, lip twitching.

“I know.” Billy sighs. “Think poorly of me if you like, but please don’t believe my actions were a reflection of my feelings for you.”

What is he to say to that? You are the only person who has ever held me and wanted nothing but myself in return. You make me ill.

“I love you.”

The slow beat of his heart stutters, if only momentarily. Billy has never said those words before. Cornelius has suspected as much, seen it in the softness of his eyes and the tenderness of his touch, but they catch him by surprise nonetheless. He wouldn’t have suspected that Billy could bring himself to say such a thing, not with Cornelius before him and God above him.

“That’s all I ever asked of you.”

“Not all.”

Sarcasm creeps into his voice, and he makes no attempt to bite it back.“For your loyalty. Did I ask for too much?”

“You know that isn’t true.” Their shoulders brush as Billy shifts, pulling his knees up to his chest. “If it’s any help, it’s not a decision that came easy.”

“Easy enough.”

“Is it too late for us, then? I’ll let you alone if that’s what you wish.”

Cornelius probes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, face screwed up in concentration. Billy watches him; he can feel his gaze as if it were a tangible thing.

It would be easy enough to take him back. He’s never been one to count his blessings, and Billy sits before him like an offering, eyes dark with sorrow. Forgiveness might take some time, perhaps more time than lies before them, but it would be the simplest thing in the world to pretend. For Billy’s loyalty, for his love.

“No, Billy,” he says. “Don’t you see it?”

_The abandoned ships behind them, the endless ice before them._

Billy’s hand cups the side of his face, guiding Cornelius to face him. He does not resist the touch. “Tell me what you see.”

“This place is changing,” he says, pressing a palm to Billy’s chest. He feels the steady beat of his heart beneath. “The order of things is shifting, sure as the ice around us. I intend to tear down the ladder. Put myself on the top rung.”

“Cornelius…”

“I’ll make a place for you, if you want it.”

Billy’s breath is warm on his lips.  

“I do. Of course I do.”


	5. "Look at me." (Crozier/Fitzjames)

“Look at me,” says James. “Do I look alright?”

Francis swears as his razor slips, nicking his jaw. “I already said you look fine.”

James’s voice is not quite sharp when he says, “Yes, darling, and thank you for that, but I would be more convinced if you were looking at me when you said it.”

With a sigh, Francis draws his eyes away from his own reflection, where he is preoccupied with trying to comb his hair in a way that does not accentuate the fact that he is a graying middle-aged man who has not had a proper haircut in twenty years. Instead, he looks at James. Who is as usual, a vision. He hasn’t seen James in a tuxedo since their wedding, and he looks every bit as handsome as he did all those years ago.

“I’m looking,” he says, setting down the comb.

“And?”

“You look fine.”

“Just fine?” There’s a hint of a smile on James’s lips.

“I’m not going to indulge your vanity.”

“Ridiculous. You’re my husband; that’s your job. What do you think I married you for?”

“God, James. Just fix your tie and let’s go.”


	6. "Am I dead?" (Crozier/Fitzjames)

This is not the first time Francis has awoken to the sound of muffled sobs and ragged breathing. If it were not for the fact that he feels, each time, a keen and unbearable pain at the sight of James suffering so, it would become routine. He encloses James in his arms, murmurs words of comfort into his hair, and waits for the night terror to pass. 

Minutes drag on, and at last his breathing slows. Francis can only hope that he is sleeping—after this, a peaceful rest is the least he deserves. But it is not long before he sees James’s eyes, half-open, darting across the familiar walls of their bedroom as if looking upon them with unaccustomed eyes.

The words come out in a hoarse whisper: “Am I dead?”

Francis shakes his head fervently, stroking James’s damp hair. “No, James. You’re very much alive, and safe.”

“I dreamt—” He falters, brow creasing in thought. “No—not a dream, but a memory.”

There is no way to deny it, though Francis would move mountains to do so if he thought it might bring James comfort. Instead, he says, “We lived, though. We survived.”

They do not talk of those months they spent, certain of their own demise, trudging across pack ice as sickness of body and mind chipped away at their already dwindling numbers. And they certainly do not speak of the weeks in which James lingered between life and death, convulsing with tremors day and night while their Esquimaux saviors tended to him. It is always in the back of their minds either way, a third, silent presence in the room. No need to draw attention to it.

“Or maybe,” says James after some time, “we did die, and this is Heaven.”

There’s a wry smile on his lips, and it makes something in Francis’s stomach twist.

“Is this how you envision Heaven?” he asks, smile strained. “A damp, drafty London flat with a curmudgeonly old Irishman?”

“It depends on the Irishman.”

There’s a glimmer of humor in James’s eyes, but, much as Francis would love to bask in the moment—he is here, with him, safe and warm and together, and there are no more burdensome secrets between them—the old, treacherous guilt that has haunted him for months stirs its head at the sight. 

“It’s not too late for you to redeem yourself in the eyes of the admiralty. You are young. You might have a brilliant career yet.

James sighs. “You know as well as I that such a thing is impossible. This place, Francis, it still has its claws in us. It will not let us forget. We are living reminders of our own arrogance, of the admiralty’s arrogance—I won’t do it. I wouldn’t leave you, anyways.”

His ridiculous jaw is set in that old stubborn expression, the one Francis despised when they first met. Strange how time (and love, love and time) erodes such harsh angles.

“I don’t believe in Heaven,” Francis says, slowly.

This elicits a low chuckle. “Yes, Francis. I know.”

“But you would be in it, James. That is how I would know, if I went there.”

They are here, and they are together, and their hearts still beat as one. That is enough, for tonight.


End file.
